_Rasni._ So, viceroys, you have pleas'd me passing well; These curious cates are gracious in mine eye, But these borachios of the richest wine Make me to think how blithesome we will be.-- Seat thee, fair Juno, in the royal throne, And I will serve thee to see thy face, That, feeding on the beauty of thy looks, My stomach and mine eyes may both be fill'd.-- Come, lordings, seat you, fellow-mates at feast, And frolic, wags; this is a day of glee: This banquet is for brightsome Alvida. I'll have them skink[118] my standing bowls with wine, And no man drink but quaff a whole carouse Unto the health of beauteous Alvida: For whoso riseth from this feast not drunk, As I am Rasni, Nineveh's great king, Shall die the death as traitor to myself, For that he scorns the health of Alvida. _K. of Cil._ That will I never do, my lord; Therefore with favour, fortune to your grace, Carouse unto the health of Alvida. _Rasni._ Gramercy, lording, here I take thy pledge:-- And, Crete, to thee a bowl of Greekish wine, Here to the health of Alvida. _K. of Crete._ Let come, my lord. Jack skinker, fill it full, A pledge unto the health of heavenly Alvida. _Rasni._ Vassals, attendant on our royal feasts, Drink you, I say, unto my lover's health: Let none that is in Rasni's royal court Go this night safe and sober to his bed. _Enter_ ADAM. _Adam._ This way he is, and here will I speak with him. _First Lord._ Fellow, whither pressest thou? _Adam._ I press nobody, sir; I am going to speak with a friend of mine. _First Lord._ Why, slave, here is none but the king, and his viceroys. _Adam._ The king! marry, sir, he is the man I would speak withal. _First Lord._ Why, callest him a friend of thine? _Adam._ Ay, marry, do I, sir; for if he be not my friend, I'll make him my friend, ere he and I pass. _First Lord._ Away, vassal, begone! thou speak unto the king! _Adam._ Ay, marry, will I, sir; an if he were a king of velvet, I will talk to him. _Rasni._ What's the matter there? what noise is that? _Adam._ A boon, my liege, a boon, my liege! _Rasni._ What is it that great Rasni will not grant, This day, unto the meanest of his land, In honour of his beauteous Alvida? Come hither, swain; what is it that thou cravest? _Adam._ Faith, sir, nothing, but to speak a few sentences to your worship. _Rasni._ Say, what is it? _Adam._ I am sure, sir, you have heard of the spirits that walk in the city here. _Rasni._ Ay, what of that? _Adam._ Truly, sir, I have an oration to tell you of one of them; and this it is. _Alvi._ Why goest not forward with thy tale? _Adam._ Faith, mistress, I feel an imperfection in my voice, a disease that often troubles me; but, alas, easily mended; a cup of ale or a cup of wine will serve the turn. _Alvi._ Fill him a bowl, and let him want no drink.